


pay no mind to the battles you've won (it'll take a lot more than rage and muscle)

by hellstrider



Series: Into You [7]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Gentle Sex, Hades - Freeform, In which Geralt is still a Witcher and Jaskier is basically Ariana Grande, Inspired by Orpheus and Eurydice (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), LORE FINALLY, M/M, Magic, Persephone - Freeform, Siren!Jaskier, Soft sex, Tests, Trials, True love defeats all, Witcher!Geralt, reupload
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:14:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22822354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellstrider/pseuds/hellstrider
Summary: there's a river.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Into You [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1596667
Comments: 20
Kudos: 413





	pay no mind to the battles you've won (it'll take a lot more than rage and muscle)

**Author's Note:**

> final reupload for into you.
> 
> title from the humbling river by puscifer, which...... is a song that's too on brand at this moment.
> 
> tumblr: thebardjaskier

_Those_ eyes _._

_Fuck, those eyes._

_They’re bluer than the_ damn sea,

_As brilliant as the sky in the height of an endless summer,_

_And they’re ringed in the softest touch of kohl, just to make them stand out all the more where they’re set in that young,_ slender _face,_

_And,_

_The Siren has indigo blood splattered over his sheer ivory shirt, a billowing thing that hangs from him like air made fabric,_

_And his tight grey pants hug his slender waist, laced boots his strapping thighs,_

_And he’s –_

_He’s so fucking_ young.

_And Geralt has banshee blood dripping from his silver blade,_

_As he looms over the corpse of the voice-stealing phantom that had attacked the Siren on his stage,_

_In front of –_

Gods _, there must be at least_ ten fucking thousand _people here,_

 _But they’ve all gone_ deathly silent _in the aftermath of the brutal battle,_

_And the Siren gazes up at Geralt with those brilliant, sky-blue eyes,_

_As his chest rises and falls with rapid, full breaths,_

_But he doesn't –_

_He doesn’t reek of_ fear _,_

 _Instead smells of_ wonder _,_

 _Of - fuck, of_ lust _,_

 _Of_ cedar _,_

Smoke _,_

Summer rose,  
  
_And,_

_“Are you hurt?” Geralt asks, low and quiet, just for them, even though they’re center fucking stage, and he knows already, can’t scent any pure blood beneath the stench of the voice-stealing banshee’s,_

_But he asks it anyways, all to hear –_

_“No,” the Siren replies, and -_

_Gods, his_ voice _,_

 _It’s like_ honey _,_

 _Like_ seasalt _,_

_Like the tide crashing against the shore beneath the fat full moon,_

_And Geralt steps over the corpse of the voice-stealing banshee with care,_

_But the Siren doesn’t so much as_ flinch _as the Witcher approaches,_

_And when Geralt offers out a hand, he moves to take it without hesitation, clever, ringed fingers wrapping around Geralt’s calloused one,_

_And he’s_ so young, 

_But he grips Geralt’s hand like he doesn’t fear the reaper,_

_And Geralt hauls him gently to his feet, catches his elbow when he teeters a little, and when the Siren braces a hand over Geralt’s chest, his fool heart surges to meet it,_

_And the audience begins to come alive again, their murmurs like war-cries against Geralt’s straining ears,_

_But all he can seem to focus on is the way the Siren smells of wonder,_

_Of_ lust _,_

_Of cedar,_

_Smoke,_

Summer rose,

_And,_

_“Your security is_ shit _, Siren,” Geralt murmurs, arching a brow, and the Siren is so young, is just at the edge of nineteen,_

_But;_

_“Good thing, too,” he says, and, Gods, that_ voice _– “else you’d be out of a_ job _, Witcher,”_

_And Geralt can’t stop the slight smirk that pulls at his lips, can’t seem to tamp down the softness blooming in his gut, and he can’t bring himself to budge as the audience comes alive, as the Siren’s horribly lacking security team floods the stage,_

_And the Siren’s gaze hasn’t strayed from him, not_ once _,_

_Not even as the clicks of cameras start to flutter through the audience as they come back to life, as their murmurs start to morph into cries and shouts,_

_As the shitty security team floods the stage, as they circle them like vultures, unwilling to get too close to the yellow-eyed hunter wielding the blade dripping in the blood of the voice-stealing banshee lying dead on the stage,_

_The yellow-eyed hunter that finds himself held utterly_ captive _by the Siren he came to_ save _,_

_And,_

_“Geralt,” he hears himself saying, “they call me Geralt, Siren,”_

_Then,_

_“Jaskier,” the Siren counters, one brow lifting, “the name’s Jaskier, Witcher,” and,_

_“You certainly know how to leave an impression,”_

_And,_

_Geralt can’t tear his gaze away from those sky-blue eyes,_

_As the Siren’s entire team floods the stage,_

_As the security who_ failed _him starts to usher the crowd through the emergency exits of the massive amphitheater,_

_But even as they’re surrounded by a sea of people,_

_It feels like they’re the only two in the_ world _,_

_Feels as if something is settling into place, as;_

_“Had plenty of practice over the years,” Geralt says wryly, and his hand still grips the Siren’s elbow, and Jaskier’s palm is like a brand against his chest,_

_“Oh, do tell,”_

_“The stories aren’t_ nearly _as exciting as I think you want them to be, Siren,”_

 _“It’s Jaskier,” and those blue eyes are flush with wonder, with an awe that has Geralt’s gut twisting into knots as the Siren steps closer, “and why don’t you let_ me _be the judge of that, Witcher?”_

_“It’s Geralt,” a beat, then; “Jaskier,”_

_And,_

_The Siren’s lips curve in a smile that has Geralt’s too-slow heart going sideways, as,_

_“Geralt,” he murmurs, and they’re the only two in the world even as they stand_ center fucking stage, _because – “nice to meet you, Geralt._

_Geralt?_

_You have to come back,_

_Darling,_ please _,_

_I can’t –_

_Geralt,_

_Geralt!”_

There’s a river.

There’s a river that he _can’t fucking cross,_

A river with water so frigid Geralt doesn’t think he’ll _ever_ be warm again,

And,

The water is opaline white, shimmers with veins of blues and golds and greens and pinks,

And Geralt stands on a shore of ivory stone,

As he stares into the _relentless_ current, 

As Jaskier’s voice drifts across the smoky surface of the unforgiving waters, _begging_ Geralt to –

_Come back,_

_Don’t leave me,_

_You swore,_

_Geralt,_

_Come home,_

And Geralt’s too-slow heart is peeling apart in the brimstone cavern of his chest,

So,

_Once more unto the breach,_

But just as he moves to set foot into the absolutely _bone-chilling_ waters for what he thinks must be the _hundredth_ time,

A voice says, “you will not cross it,” and,

Geralt lifts his head as a figure emerges from the thick smog surrounding the river of opaline white,

And she’s all generous curves and deep umber skin, wears her autumn-auburn hair in long, elegant locs all wrapped in bands of beaten gold, and her eyes are a _vivid_ spring green, the same green as the gown that hugs her hourglass figure,

And Geralt feels as if he can properly breathe again as she grows near, as the scent of _rich_ , sun-warmed earth and gardenia begins to chew through ice and mist; the woman comes to a halt beside Geralt, spring-green gaze flickering carefully over his face before it turns to the opaline waters, surrounded by white shores and _thick_ , cloying smog,

“You belong to the realm of the _dead_ now, Witcher,” Persephone says, and Geralt breathes out slow and steady through his nose as he steps back from the opaline waters, veined with blue, with green, with gold, with pink,

 _I can’t_ , he thinks, not even death, _I swore it, swore that not even_ death _would stop me from -_

“You will not cross it,” Persephone says again, but then she’s reaching out, and Geralt doesn’t resist her touch when she cups his chin, doesn’t resist when she commands him to meet her gaze as she says, meaningfully, “not if you wish to _conquer_ it, Witcher,”

But,

“So, _what_? I _surrender_ to it? I do that, I drown,” Geralt says wryly, and Persephone _smiles_ , smiles as she steps close and reaches up to smooth back his silver hair, _and it’s_ – it’s so _tender_ and _motherly_ it has Geralt’s stomach turning on its head,

“I have to cross it,” and Geralt’s voice sounds weaker than he’s heard it sound in _years_ , and Persephone’s spring green eyes soften as she strokes down his cheek, “I have to get back to –“

 _The heart of me_ ,

But,

“Come, little Witcher – you are weary, and need rest,” Persephone says soothingly then, and _Geralt_ – Geralt’s _eyes_ –

They’re so –

_Heavy,_

And his steel-strapped bones are _so_ weary,

Long for the gentle finality of an _endless_ slumber,

_But -_

_“No_ ,” he mutters as Persephone keeps carding her hands through his hair, and she smells of gardenia and sunlit earth, of life and _hope_ , and Geralt clutches at her arms as he begins to list to the side, “I need –“

_Jaskier,_

Because,

_I swore,_

_He’s –_

_He’s_ mine _,_

 _The_ heart _of me,_

 _I waited a_ hundred _years,_

 _Walked this world a hundred years to_ find _him,_

_I need –_

_Jaskier,_

And,

_You are the heart of me,_

_You’ve got nothing to fear,_

So,

_I have to – I have to get across,_

But Persephone croons _low_ as she cards her fingers through his hair, and,

Everything is velvet _dark_ as Persephone’s voice murmurs a soft, “ _hush_ , child,” and,

He smells _cedar_ ,

_Smoke,_

_Summer rose,_

Tastes the tang of _pomegranates_ on his lips,

But _he can’t –_

_No,_

He can’t _stay here,_

He can’t –

He _has_ to cross the river,

Has to _conquer_ it,

Has to _best_ it,

Can’t _surrender_ to it,

 _Because_ ,

He has to get back to –

_“Uncle!”_

And,

Geralt opens his eyes.

Geralt opens his eyes to find himself staring up at a canopy of ivy-laced velvet the color of freshly spilt blood,

_As,_

“Uncle! I swear to _Hera_ I will shake this _entire fucking citadel down_ , where is he?”

And,

That _voice_ –

Gods, 

That _voice_ ,

 _No_ , Geralt thinks frantically as he lurches upright, _not here, you can’t be here_ –

But,

_“Uncle!”_

Which,

_Uncle?_

And Geralt’s out of the room he barely gets a glimpse of in half a heartbeat, is moving through the blackened corridors before he can think twice, the corridors lined with ivory pillars wrapped in _lush_ green ivy, ivy that drips with white gardenia and bright pink bleeding hearts, 

The corridor that opens into a _huge_ , sprawling cavern that’s built like a damn _cathedral_ , complete with a vaulted crystalline ceiling and oaks as vast as towers hugging the curving, black stone walls,

And it’s not marble beneath his feet but moss and grass, and small streams of opaline water cut through the rich earth, all curling out from the massive waterfall that pours from the ceiling behind a pair of thrones carved into the trunk of an absolutely _massive_ tree the likes of which Geralt has _never_ seen before; the bark is a smoky swirl of deepest obsidian and purest white, the huge leaves a dusky sage-green, and dispersed amongst them are fat, vivid red pomegranates, glimmering like jewels where they’re nestled amongst the greenery,

And standing on the stone steps leading up to the thrones nestled in the trunk of a tree the likes of which Geralt has _never_ seen before _is_ –

 _“Jaskier_ ,” and it comes on a breath that feels like a _war-cry,_

And _Jaskier looks_ –

He looks _so damn beautiful_ in a fine leather jacket and tight grey pants, boots laced all the way to his thighs, and his shirt is a thin, _gauzy_ thing in a shade of periwinkle that makes his eyes pop as they whirl towards Geralt, just this side of _wild_ , all Siren-Call _neon_ ,

“Oh, _thank fucking Jesus_ ,” Jaskier chokes; “Jaskier, _fuck_ ,” Geralt bites out with a voice lashed in _fury_ and _fear_ ,

But Geralt is moving even as he speaks with a voice lashed in _fury_ and _fear_ , even as a cloud of smog begins to gather at the roots of the throne-bearing tree, moves to catch Jaskier in his arms even as a ripping, _raw_ , grief-struck _agony_ unfurls in his chest, 

And Jaskier smells of _ice_ and _salt_ , of _sulfur_ and _magic -_ of cedar, of smoke, of summer rose,

Of _home,_

And _Geralt can’t_ – he can’t hear _anything_ the Siren is saying as he sweeps his hands over Jaskier’s waist, as he checks him over for wounds he might not be able to scent, as he cups the Siren’s face _and –_

“Geralt – _are you listening_ – Geralt –“

But –

 _“No,”_ he burrs absently, and,

All Geralt can do is kiss over Jaskier’s skin, is inhale the heat of him as he smears his lips over the Siren’s cheekbone, as he catches Jaskier’s _faint_ , hitching, “ _darling_ ,” between his teeth, _and he’s_ – the Witcher is _shaking_ , is shaking like he’s about to come _apart_ as he clutches at Jaskier’s face and kisses the Siren until Jaskier is plastered against him, until the Siren’s _panting._ quiet and _pained_ , against his tongue,

“Are you,” Jaskier starts, sounding _strained_ , and his hands slide up under Geralt’s t-shirt and the Witcher can’t swallow down the gutted, _breathless_ moan he presses to Jaskier’s lips, because -

Geralt had waded a _dozen times_ into the _fucking river_ only to end up on the same shore a dozen times more, had dipped into those icy waters until he was certain he would _never_ be warm again, but when Jaskier _touches him_ -

 _Fuck_ , when Jaskier _touches him,_

It feels as if he’s coming _alive_ for the very first time, 

_And_ ,

“What?” Geralt manages faintly as Jaskier’s hands slide over his chest, fingers curling around the medallion resting against his too-slow heart, “what – what did you say?”

“Are you _hurt_ , Geralt?” Jaskier repeats, lips fluttering over his jaw as diamonds made of saltwater drip down Geralt’s throat, over his collarbone, 

“I don’t –“ and he _doesn’t_ , “know,”

And Jaskier’s blue eyes are so fucking _fierce_ when they lift to meet his own, are just this side of _wild_ , and _something_ – something _new_ is vibrating through the Siren’s skin now, _as,_

“So good to finally see you again, nephew,”

And the voice resonates through the very _earth_ as Geralt’s gut _clenches_ , and he catches Jaskier about the waist as the Siren twists to look over his own shoulder,

As the _King of the Underworld_ himself starts to descend the stairs leading up to the throne carved into the tree with idle, swaggering steps; he’s _devilishly_ handsome, Hades is - is all ivory skin and inky black hair that falls in _effortlessly_ windswept, loose-kept curls to his shoulders,

And his strong jaw is dusted in dark stubble, opaline eyes ringed in dark kohl, and he’s about as big as Geralt himself is, is built like a _warrior_ , with a barreled chest and thick arms bearing bands of beaten silver; he wears a dark vest belted with silver trappings about the waist and loose black breeches tucked into soft boots of matte black leather - but he also wears _scars,_ _vivid_ red scars that mark him as the _ancient_ thing Geralt knows him to be,

The ancient thing that is, _apparently_ , Jaskier’s –

“ _Uncle_ ,” Jaskier says icily, and Hades’ lips quirk as he sidles to a halt a few feet away, “I know it’s _been a while_ , but this is the _entirely_ wrong way to go about getting my attention,”

“We’re going to have a _talk_ about this,” Geralt says lowly, moving close to Jaskier’s ear as the Siren waves at him to hush, _because then_ –

“You didn’t tell him the _truth_ of your _parentage_ , nephew?” Hades demands, brows climbing towards his hairline, and Jaskier _bristles_ as Geralt glances towards the thrones to find Persephone watching with a raised brow, “relationships do not thrive on _secrets_ , my dear boy,”

“I had hoped it might all just go away if I ignored it,” Jaskier says blithely, “ _anyways_ , we’ll be going, now, I’ll tell mum you said hello –“

 _“Go?_ ” and Hades starts to circle them then, and while Geralt’s instinct starts to spike, as his blood begins to burn, Jaskier rolls his eyes so hard Geralt’s afraid he might strain something, “the Witcher belongs to the Underworld now, Julian. _Oh,_ don’t tell me you hid your true name from the man, please,”

“He _knows_ my _name_ ,” Jaskier grits out, and Geralt slides his hand under the Siren’s jacket to splay his palm over his lower back, where it always settles like it was meant to fit there, “and he does _not_ , he’s still _alive_ ,”

“The dead are not the only ones who dwell here,” Hades counters; “your furies _kidnapped_ him,” Jaskier snaps, and he strains against Geralt’s hold, but even if Hades is – is fucking _family_ , Geralt _doesn’t trust him,_ especially not when it comes to the wellbeing of Jaskier, so he holds the Siren fast, holds him until Jaskier is settling against his chest again as he says, primly, “Megaera told me everything,”

“ _Meg_ ,” Hades sighs, halting his ominous prowling to cast his gaze towards the glittering ceiling, 

“Jaskier,” Geralt starts, 

“I know,” the Siren bites out, _impatient_ , about as _furious_ as Geralt’s ever heard him sound since he woke up in the hospital, and,

“Do you _trust_ me, nephew?” 

“ _Not_ even a little,” Jaskier says, hands curling around Geralt’s arms as he turns completely to face the God, stepping on Geralt’s bare toes as he does, “not when it comes to this. If you _did_ anything to him – if you _hurt_ him,”

And _here_ , Hades tilts his head, 

And _here_ , his brow creases,

And _here_ , Geralt sees the God become something _human_ as he says, gently, “ _Julian_ , come now, you know me better than that,” but,

“You _took him_ ,” Jaskier says, and his _voice_ – when his voice _breaks_ , something under Geralt’s heart breaks with it, “I thought – _I thought_ –“

And he can’t – _just_ , 

Let Jaskier’s pain _fester_ ,

Even if they’re in the _bloody fucking Underworld,_

Even as _Hades himself_ watches them both now,

And Geralt _doesn’t fucking care_ that Hades is watching them both as he slides an arm around Jaskier’s waist, as he pulls the Siren back, as he puts his body between Jaskier _and his_ – his _uncle_ ,

Who happens to be _Hades_ , lord of the _fucking Underworld,_

Who took Geralt as his _captive_ , and,

He _can’t fucking remember it,_

Doesn’t remember _anything_ past waking beside Jaskier and curling around the Siren, 

Doesn’t recall _anything_ past kissing up the back of Jaskier’s neck until he’d stirred in his arms, breathed out a soft, aching, “ _Geralt_ ,” and,

He utters Geralt’s name now with a _different_ kind of ache in his voice as the Witcher puts himself between Jaskier and the _literal God of the Underworld,_

As he walks him several paces back despite the way he can feel Hades’ stare _burning_ down his spine,

But he can’t just _let_ Jaskier’s pain _fester_ ,

Even if they’re in the _Underworld_ ,

Even if he _can’t cross the fucking river,_

Even if he feels about as _cold_ as the _dead_ must,

But when he _touches_ Jaskier, it feels as if _life_ is returning to his weary bones,

And Jaskier’s blue eyes gleam with diamonds as they scrape over Geralt’s face, and his ringed fingers curl around Geralt’s hands when he cups the Siren’s jaw,

“What’re you –“

“How did you get here?” Geralt asks quietly, needing to know - “what _deal_ did you make to cross that damned river?”

“ _None_ ,” Jaskier says, suddenly testy, and Geralt tries not to audibly sigh, “I think it’s _pretty obvious_ that _I’m_ not really the one in danger, here,”

“If I am –“

 _“If?_ Geralt, look around you!”

“Then you’re not _involving yourself_ –“

“I’m already involved! If _you’re_ involved, _I’m_ involved, where have you been the past eight years?”

“Jaskier,”

_“Geralt,”_

And _impossible_ fondness swells in Geralt’s chest as the Siren steps _close_ , impossibly close; Jaskier steps on Geralt’s bare feet as he slides his arms around the Witcher’s neck, and his _scent_ –

 _Gods_ , his scent is like _salvation_ , is beyond _any_ kind of comfort that Geralt could _ever_ yearn for, and he slides his hands up over Jaskier’s waist, chases the Siren’s lips, _as_ -

“I’m _not_ leaving without you,” Jaskier murmurs, nose ghosting over Geralt’s cheekbone, “so if that means we’re moving into the damn _Underworld_ for the time being, then,”

And what the fuck _else_ could he do, after that,

What else could he _do_ ,

Besides catch Jaskier’s lips in a kiss that has the Siren’s body cresting up against his, the kind of kiss that has _heat_ seeping down into his icy marrow, the kind of kiss that makes Geralt forget _entirely_ that they're in the bloody fucking _Underworld_ , surrounded by dark stone and oak trees the size of towers,

Makes him _forget_ the weight of Hades’ gaze, makes the Witcher _forget_ the way he can _still smell_ the frigid waters he couldn’t conquer, 

The waters that carried a _weak mockery_ of Jaskier’s voice in their blue-veined currents, the voice that _begged_ him to –

_Come home,_

_Please,_

_Come back,_

_You have to come back,_

But then -

“You’re both free to go,” and it’s not Hades who speaks this time, but Persephone, and Geralt slides an arm around Jaskier’s waist as they both look towards the Queen, 

Though Persephone looks only at Jaskier as she halts at her husband’s side, one brow lifted high as she says, “you know the _rules_ , Jaskier. Your dedication to the Witcher is commendable, but what of _his_?”

 _“My –_ “ Geralt starts, voice dropping to a growl as he starts to turn, but he stops when Jaskier fists his hands in his shirt, when the Siren utters a quick, “Geralt, _stop_ ,” with the sea on his tongue as Hades’ nose furls and he moves swiftly in front of Persephone, 

“The _river_ will decide,” the God sneers, “if he is _worthy_. But remember, nephew – once you cross it, there is no looking back. For if you look back –“

“Then I never trusted he was mine in the first place,” Jaskier intones dully, “I’ve heard the story a _thousand fucking times_ ,”

“The story,” Geralt repeats, feeling a bit like a horse being haggled over,

“I know he’s not _that_ dim,” Hades drawls, white eyes glinting,

“Could you _please_ ,” Jaskier starts when Geralt tilts his head, jaw ticking, “ _stop_ ,”

“Go, Jaskier,” Persephone says, one hand curling around Hades’ arm, and the God steps back, moves to stand beside his Queen as those spring-green eyes sweep over Geralt, as they glint with a hint of knowing, “oh – _do_ tell your mother I say hello, I miss her dearly,”

“I’m _sure_ you do,” Jaskier says as he stumbles down from his perch on Geralt’s boots, and the Witcher catches him around the waist with practiced ease before he can trip headlong into a nearby stream, “bloody fucking _Hell_ – “

“Careful, little lark,” Geralt says on instinct, and then there’s a sound like wind rustling through leaves and when he looks around, both Hades and Persephone are gone; Jaskier huffs, one hand still clutching at Geralt’s t-shirt until it’s groping for Geralt’s own, and the Witcher tangles their fingers together before –

“I know I have – _just_ , so much explaining to do,” Jaskier is saying, but all Geralt gives is a faint grunt as the Siren starts to lead him towards a huge set of double doors opposite the massive tree with the thrones carved into the base,

Because all he can _focus on_ is the way Jaskier’s fingers feel between his own, is the way Jaskier fucking _smells_ ,

Like _cedar_ ,

 _Smoke_ ,

_Summer rose,_

_Home,_

So Geralt tunes Jaskier’s rambling _out_ to focus on his scent, just gives a faint grunt in reply, until –

“If you’re – _done_ with all - all _this_ , really, _just_ , done with it, just – wait until we get out, alright, because I can’t be having a _breakdown_ in this place, it’s. It’s too much, alright, so –“

And it _takes a moment,_ takes a moment for what Jaskier is saying to really catch up as the double doors groan open on their own and they emerge out onto a wide white stone pathway surrounded by spindly black trees,

But as soon as it _does_ , Geralt halts in his tracks, 

And Jaskier’s fingers _twist_ and _tighten_ between his own, rings digging into Geralt’s skin,

But even as he tries to catch the Siren _close_ ,

Jaskier untangles their fingers and dances out of reach; he’s – he’s _radiating_ an _anxiety_ that has Geralt’s damn _teeth_ itching, the kind of anxiety he’d been radiating _when_ –

_I need no one,_

_And the last thing I want is someone needing me,_

Which has Geralt’s too-slow heart going _sideways_ ,

As,

“ _Just_ ,” and the Siren swallows thickly as he runs a hand through his chestnut hair, and all Geralt wants to do is sweep him in his arms and find somewhere to _hide_ , if only for a little while, somewhere they can lose themselves in one another before they have to face the damned _river_ , the river that Geralt _couldn’t cross_ , the one that had cried out in Jaskier’s voice until Geralt had been _frozen_ down to what thought might be a _soul_ with all the times he’d waded into its _unforgiving_ current, 

And,

“If you _trust_ me at all, _just_ – follow me, alright? I know I need to _explain_ some things, but –“

“ _Jaskier_ ,”

But the Siren won’t _look_ at him, and Geralt’s throat _aches_ and his chest is too damn _tight_ as Jaskier chews his lip, as his sky-blue eyes start to shine just this side of _too bright_ , as he plants his hands on his hips and _buzzes_ with the kind of anxiety he'd radiated when Geralt had torn them _apart_ , 

“The _river_ is – it’s _close_ ,” Jaskier says finally, voice gone _soft_ , and Geralt’s skin is _thrumming_ as he clenches his jaw and takes a step towards the Siren, feeling suddenly as if there’s some _invisible_ chasm yawning open between them, one of his _own_ making – because it was _always_ him carving out the uncrossable space between them, _wasn’t it?_

 _Always_ him, because while Jaskier might look at Geralt like he was some kind of _miracle_ , he knows that the unknowable thing called _love_ has measured him and found him irrevocably _wanting_ , 

_Lacking,_

And he doesn’t remember _getting here_ , doesn’t remember _anything_ past waking up with Jaskier in his arms - but it feels like a _lifetime_ ago, feels like an _age_ has passed since he last had the Siren _warm_ and _safe_ in his arms where he _belongs_ ,

Because even if Jaskier is _right_ ,

Right _there_ ,

It feels, so _suddenly_ , as if there’s some kind of _valley_ between them, 

And Geralt moves to follow Jaskier as the Siren leads the way through a garden of bay trees and white rose bushes,

And the scent of _frigid_ waters makes the hair on the back of Geralt’s neck stand on _end_ ,

As the song of the river begins to unfurl down his _spine_ , and,

How many times he’d tried to _cross_ it, he doesn’t know,

So how he’s going to do it _now_ , he can’t say,

_Until –_

“You trust me,” and Jaskier poses it as a question when it shouldn’t be one as they come to a halt on the white shore, and Geralt moves now to catch one of the Siren’s hands in his own, counts it as a win when Jaskier _doesn’t_ pull _away_ ,

Counts it as a _triumph_ when Jaskier’s blue eyes flicker up to meet his own, _and_ ,

It’s no _valley_ that lies between them, Geralt thinks, as he cups Jaskier’s cheek and thumbs over the bone,

No chasm carved of ice,

No void of blank space,

But a _river_ ,

One he _couldn’t seem to cross,_ no matter how many times he _tried_ ,

And he’d _failed_ at that,

Failed to cut _Hell_ apart to reach the Siren,

Made his own promise into a _lie_ ,

So _he_ should be the one asking Jaskier if there was any trust left still between them, _but_ ,

“Always,” he says, even though it should _never_ have been a question in the _first place,_

And,

“This is how this is going to go,” Jaskier says after he digs his teeth into his lip so hard it bleaches out, and he’s _so_ fierce and _so_ strong, stronger than Geralt thinks he himself has _ever_ been; “we’re going to cross the - this _fucking_ river. You’re going to do _just_ as I say, and we’re going to get across. If we – _when_ we get to the other side –“

And the Siren cuts himself off, nose curling a little; Geralt steps closer, nuzzles over Jaskier’s crown as Jaskier fists a hand on _instinct_ in Geralt’s t-shirt,

“I _can’t look back,_ ” Jaskier says quietly then, and he’s vibrating with a _new_ energy now that has Geralt’s instinct rearing its head in his chest like a wild thing scenting _blood_ , “or he gets to - to _keep you_. It’s – bullshit, but,”

“It's - Orpheus and Eurydice,” Geralt murmurs as the realization dawns, and Jaskier’s ears go _pink_ as his mouth twists, as he starts to smell of _shame_ and _embarrassment_ ,

“It’s a _test_ ,” Jaskier spits, “and you can _bet_ your stupidly beautiful ass I’ll be having _words_ with my dear mother when we get back, because I will bet you _every_ diamond I own that _she_ put him up to this,”

“Your _mother_ ,” Geralt says slowly, “who you refuse to let me meet,”

“Mhm, _yep_ , and what did I tell you, when you got all upset? That there was a _reason_!” Jaskier throws his arms wide then, looking more than a little frantic as he does, “ _this_! Would be the reason!”

“And your mother has sway with the God of the Underworld _because_ –“

“She’s,” and Jaskier sucks in a cheek, bounces a leg, “his niece. He’s _technically_ my great-uncle. Technically.”

“Because…?”

“My grandfather,” Jaskier says haltingly,

“Is,” Geralt prompts patiently, _but_ ,

“I hate you,” Jaskier says, head falling forward against Geralt’s collarbone, and the river sings beside them as Geralt slides a hand over the nape of the Siren’s neck, as he tries to reconcile – _everything_ , all of this,

And then,

“Poseidon,” Jaskier says finally, voice muffled by Geralt’s shoulder, “my - _grandfather_.”

Which,

_Really,_

Just,

“Sirens originated from the Muses,” Geralt says dumbly, and Jaskier _huffs_ , splays his hands over the Witcher’s waist as he noses absently over Geralt’s pulse,

“Not this _particular_ family, darling,” he says softly, voice gone _tight_ , and when those blue eyes – _impossibly_ blue, so blue they’re almost crystalline – lift to meet Geralt’s, his heart makes a valiant attempt at breaking free from his chest,

“You’re a _godling_ ,” Geralt says faintly, _sounding_ about as awestruck as he _feels_ ,

And Jaskier looks torn between fierce, _defiant_ pride and _absolute_ , all-consuming _terror_ as he fists his hands in Geralt’s shirt,

And he smells the way he had the day Geralt tore them _apart_ ,

Radiates the kind of _anxiety_ he had when Geralt had said –

_I need no one,_

_And the last thing I want is someone needing me,_

But all along,

 _Right_ from the _beginning_ ,

When Geralt had looked into those _impossibly_ blue eyes as he loomed over Jaskier on the stage where a banshee had tried to steal his voice,

It had been –

_You are the heart of me,_

And,

_Your dedication to the Witcher is commendable,_

_But what of his?_

But,

_Spent a hundred fucking years hating this life,_

_And then came you,_

And,

_They know nothing of this, the Gods that assume to know everything,_

So,

“ _Tell_ me,” he burrs lowly as the song of the river runs through his veins like the heat Jaskier has set loose inside him, “tell me how to come _home_ , how to come back to _you_ ,”

 _Command me_ , he thinks wildly, because his blade has never bent to _any_ name _finer_ than –

_“Jaskier,”_

And,

“Drown,” Jaskier says tightly, “you _have to_ – to _drown_ ,”

Which,

_You will not cross it,_

_Not if you wish to conquer it,_

And,

Jaskier’s jaw _clenches_ as he searches Geralt’s face, as he _clings_ to Geralt’s shirt, and the river _sings_ through his blood like the _heat_ Jaskier has set loose _inside him_ ,

Did the _moment_ he reached out to take Geralt’s hand when he was _nineteen_ and _bloodstained_ , unafraid of the yellow-eyed monster-hunter that _loomed_ over him,

Of the thing that could just as _easily_ cut him down as it had the banshee who came to steal his voice, 

And Geralt had been asking him to look into the maw of the beast then,

As Jaskier says, _now_ ;

“Drown,”

And,

_The river will decide if he is worthy,_

_I can’t lose you,_

_You trust me,_

_Your dedication is commendable,_

_What of his,_

_Will decide if he’s worthy,_

_Worthy,_

_Worthy,_

And then Jaskier is _letting him go_ ,

And the Siren’s blue eyes are _brilliant_ and _bright_ ,

As he steps towards the river,

As he steps _into_ it, and,

Geralt can feel the _finality_ of it, when Jaskier turns his back on him, when he rolls a shoulder and starts to wade into the opaline river veined with greens, with pinks, with golds, with blue that

seems _grey_ when Geralt compares it to the Siren’s eyes,

And then Jaskier –

Jaskier is _gone_ ,

Sinks beneath the current without a glance back, because there was a finality to it, when he _turned away_ from Geralt,

And _Geralt –_

He _feels_ it, when the river _swallows_ Jaskier,

When the Siren _disappears_ from his sight,

And,

 _Fear_ grips him in a way it seldom _ever_ has,

As Jaskier _vanishes_ ,

As the river yawns wide and _rending_ before him,

As,

_You will not cross it,_

_Not if you wish to conquer it,_

And,

Geralt has long since grown _accustomed_ to laying his weapons down,

Knows that not _every_ battle is one to be fought with silver or steel,

Knows that this is _no_ war to be won but a _devotion_ to be proven, and,

_You trust me,_

_Always,_

So,

The Witcher takes a deep breath,

Utters a single, vehement, “ _fuck_ ,”

Before he steps into the uncrossable, _unconquerable_ river.

And,

It’s _so fucking cold,_

But,

As he wades deeper into the _brutal_ current,

The _heat_ Jaskier has set loose across his bones begins to _chew through_ the frigid chill, and,

Geralt can –

He can _feel_ the Siren,

As he splays his hands across the opaline surface of the relentless waters,

As he wades deeper, _deeper_ ,

As he prepares to –

_Drown,_

Because,

_You are the heart of me,_

So,

Death could not _touch_ him, not _here_ ,

But it wouldn’t _matter,_

Not if he can’t _follow Jaskier home_ ,

And with _nothing else to lose,_

Geralt takes one last breath, _and_ ,

He sinks into the opaline water,

Laced with veins of _green_ , of _pink_ , of _gold_ ,

Of a _blue_ that looks _grey_ in comparison when he thinks of –

_Those eyes,_

_Fuck,_

_Those eyes,_

And,

Geralt can feel the _symphony_ of Jaskier’s _heartbeat_ calling out to his own,

The heartbeat that slips into the space between each too-slow pump of the weathered muscle that rests in the brimstone cavern of his chest,

And his lungs _ache_ as he sinks _deeper_ into the water, 

As he lifts his golden gaze to watch the light as it begins to fade through the rippling current,

Until all the Witcher knows is the _impenetrable dark,_

And _Jaskier’s heartbeat –_

His heartbeat _fades_ as the _light_ does,

And Geralt’s lungs _burn_ as he grits his teeth and twists in the thick waters, 

As he tries to swim towards the far shore,

But _he can’t –_

He can’t fucking _move_ ,

As his lungs _ache_ and _scream_ for air,

As his body begins to _panic_ ,

 _Instinct_ thrumming to life like a _fever_ beneath his skin,

An instinct that _begs_ him to kick his legs, to _shoot_ for the surface,

But –

_You trust me,_

_Always,_

So,

_Drown,_

And,

_You are the heart of me,_

_I can’t lose you,_

_Hold onto me, Jaskier,_

_Always will,_

_Then you’ve got nothing to be afraid of,_

_Yet,_

_You took him,_

_I thought,_

_I thought –_

But,

_Not even death could take me from you._

The river is _unforgiving_ ,

And it’s _entrapping_ ,

Is threatening to _crush_ him as he sinks _deeper_ into the frigid dark,

But then –

Geralt goes _still_ ,

As,

He lets his lungs _burn_ ,

As he lets his _instinct_ unfurl,

As his lips part, and,

_I would tear Hell apart to come back,_

And no death could touch him now,

_As –_

The Witcher tips his head back,

As he recalls;

_Cedar,_

_Smoke,_

_Summer rose,_

_Home,_

And,

There’s a river.

A river of _relentless_ currents,

Of opaline white veined with _greens_ , with _pinks_ , with _golds_ ,

With a _blue_ that becomes _grey_ when he compares it to _those eyes,_

And the river is not something to _conquer_ ,

But something to _bow_ to,

Because when he _bows_ to it,

It is at the command of –

_You trust me,_

_Always,_

And,

_The river will decide if he is worthy,_

But,

The only reason he bows to the river’s judgement at _all_ is because –

_You are the heart of me,_

So,

Geralt breathes in.

He _breathes in,_

And at first, he thinks he’s _failed_ ,

As _cold_ , biting water floods his throat,

But even as he begins to _grieve_ ,

As he thinks,

_I'm so sorry, my beloved,_

Water becomes _mist_ ,

Becomes _air_ ,

And Geralt _starts_ when the violent clatter of a _vicious_ , frantic heartbeat echoes through his skull,

As white light _sears_ across his vision,

As the water becomes _mist_ , becomes _air_ ,

As,

 _Life_ floods through him, _and_ -

There’s a river.

And it runs between white shores _behind_ Geralt, opaline waters _utterly_ unconcerned with the ongoing trials of mortals and immortals alike,

And Geralt breathes _hard_ and _fast_ as he stands on the far shore he tried _over_ and _over_ to reach, only to end up _right_ back where he started, and his clothes are dry and his lungs are flooding with air as the heavy fog starts to _lift_ , revealing a _vast_ meadow of glimmering, _dark_ emerald grass,

A meadow that sprawls out beneath a false sky of massive geodes and crystalline stalactites, 

A meadow that plays _host_ to –

“Don’t – don’t get my hopes up, boy,” and,

“Don’t _play_ with me, Cerberus,” but,

 _“He’s_ – he’s _behind me,_ isn’t he?”

And,

Jaskier sits cross-legged on the dark emerald grass in front of a huge wolf-beast with three heads, a wolf-beast that lifts each head in succession as Geralt begins to wander from the shore, each step tentative, as if he might make one wrong move and trip headlong back into opaline waters,

And the Siren’s _voice_ sounds – sounds completely _wrecked_ when he utters a soft, splintered, “ _Geralt_?” as – as _Cerberus_ , a wolf-beast the size of a small _elephant_ , a wolf-beast with white fur and _three fucking heads_ , yips and burrs and pants, _massive_ tail thumping against the ground as Geralt picks his way across the deep emerald grass, 

“I’m here,” Geralt says hoarsely, and, “how long have you –“

“I don’t rightly know. How long you think, boy?” Jaskier asks Cerberus tightly, and one of the wolf’s heads dips so the beast can lick reassuringly at the Siren’s cheek, “that’s what I thought. Not long, darling,”

And he doesn’t turn around, doesn’t look back at Geralt – because he _can’t_ , because;

_It’s a test,_

And,

_If I look back,_

_Then I never trusted I had him in the first place,_

But,

“I’m _right_ here,” Geralt says, _quiet_ and _soft_ , and Cerberus licks at Jaskier’s face again before the wolf-beast heaves to his feet, and Geralt’s damn heart goes sideways when one of the heads drops to nudge at the Siren until he’s clambering up as well, dusting off his tight pants,

And Geralt can see how his hands shake as he starts to close the space between them, but before he can reach out, just to reassure him, if only to _soothe_ the way the Siren trembles, Jaskier barks out a _sharp_ , frantic “ _don’t_ ,” and Geralt halts, recently recovered lungs packing into his throat,

“I don’t know if that – if that breaks the rules,” Jaskier rasps, sounding _agonized_ , and Geralt’s nose furls as he looks up to Cerberus when the wolf-beast keens and whines, as Jaskier says, sounding _beyond_ exhausted, “just – we should get moving. It’s going to be a _long_ fucking night. Thanks for keeping me company, you mangy old thing,”

And Cerberus chuffs as Jaskier scratches at the wolf-beast’s chest, huge tail whipping back and forth, tongues lolling out of two of the huge mouths as the third head watches Geralt serenely, knowingly, _a little_ \- a little _proudly_ ,

“Geralt?”

“Right here,”

“Just – keep _talking_ , would you?” 

And his _voice_ – Gods, his _voice_ , 

It sounds the way it had the day Geralt had almost died in the house in the country, the house full of _higher fucking vampires_ , the house with the _floral-patterned sofas_ , the house that reeked of _false rose_ and _too much perfume,_

When Geralt had heard Jaskier sing out from the tiny, _shitty_ radio on a doily-covered table as he bled out over a shattered vase of white roses going _red_ , 

When Geralt had called out to the one he’d been so terrified to _lose_ , so terrified he’d cut Jaskier loose before the world could take him _away,_

And,

Jaskier sounds like he had _then_ , when Geralt had called him at four in the morning, when he’d uttered, _just wanted one more moment of you,_

When he says, _so_ quiet and _so_ fierce all at once,

“Keep talking, would you,” 

And Geralt bowed to the river’s judgment all for _this_ ,

All to find his way _home_ ,

Back to –

_You are the heart of me,_

So,

“Did I ever tell you about the time I had to lure a Doppler out by performing in a truly horrible modern-day retelling of Hamlet?”

And it’s probably one of Geralt’s _least_ favorite stories, but Jaskier chokes on a laugh when he says it, and as they start to trail across the meadow, heading for a stairwell of white stone leading up into the cavern walls, towards _freedom_ ,

The Siren says, wetly, “ _no_ , you _definitely_ haven’t told me about that one,” and,

It’s such a goddamn _relief_ to hear the laughter that laces through his quaking voice, the voice that Geralt is _powerless_ to - even though he’s _immune_ to the Call,

But even if he _weren’t_ ,

It _wouldn’t fucking matter,_

Because he would do _anything_ Jaskier asked of him _anyways_ ,

So even though the story is, _quite frankly_ , one of his most _mortifying_ experiences, 

_(Current one aside,)_

He begins to tell it as they wander across the deep emerald meadow, 

And with each one that Geralt coaxes forth, Jaskier’s laughter grows _stronger_ , 

Until it sounds as unburdened as Geralt always wishes it _could_ be,

And Jaskier has to pause by the end, has to pause and lean against the side of the white steps they’ve come to just to catch his breath as he wheezes, “ _Jesus_ , Geralt - does Ciri know this one?” 

“No,” Geralt admits, heart swelling in his chest as he watches the Siren run a hand through his hair, and he – _Gods_ , he knows what it’s _like_ , to ache for the way Jaskier’s eyes ignite whenever they settle over him, 

And, _Gods_ ,

Does he _ache_ for it _now_ ,

Just as he _aches_ to watch the way Jaskier’s _smile_ forms,

The way his gaze _softens_ when their world _narrows_ _down_ until it’s just the two of them,

And he knows Jaskier can feel his _rampant_ yearning because Geralt can feel the Siren’s return to him _three-fold,_

As Jaskier says _fondly_ , quietly, “she’d _love_ to hear it,” and,

Geralt’s damn heart is beating like a human’s might as Jaskier runs a hand through his hair again and carefully shoves off the side of the sweeping white stairwell, the stairwell leading up to the cavernous pathway promising freedom,

“I have to _believe_ it’s really you,” Jaskier says then as they start walking again, and Geralt focuses on his scent, grounds himself in the _cedar_ , the _smoke_ , the _summer rose_ , as; “ _and that –_ that story is too damn _Geralt_ for it to be a lie,”

“Should I ask what that means, to be _too damn Geralt?”_

“ _Endearing_ , darling,” Jaskier replies softly, “it means it’s – _beyond_ endearing,”

_“Hm,”_

“Ah, there it is,”

“There’s what?”

“Your – ‘ _hm_ ’ of vague acquiescence. Now I _really_ know it’s you. No Shade could ever replicate that.”

“I’m no Shade, Jaskier,”

“I know,” but there’s an _edge_ to Jaskier’s voice, one that makes Geralt’s damn _bones_ itch, and _he wishes_ … Gods, he wants _nothing_ more than to –

“I wish I could _touch you_ ,” the Witcher burrs lowly, and Jaskier lets out a soft, _punching_ huff, reaching out to brace himself against the side of the cavern wall when they finally reach the top of the stairwell; Geralt can feel the air lightening now, feels hope crash through him as he dares to step behind Jaskier, so close he can smell the faint _musk_ of his sweat, the _heat_ of his skin,

And the diamond bauble dangling from the Siren’s ear glints and glimmers in the false moonlight pouring from the crystalline sky overhead when Jaskier’s head turns just a fraction,

As Geralt steps as _close_ as he _dares_ ,

And Jaskier’s breathing _just_ this side of too fast as Geralt moves _close_ , close enough he can feel the _heat_ that radiates from the Siren,

Close enough he can count Jaskier’s _heartbeats_ , the heartbeats that seem to slip in between his too-slow ones,

“Keep talking,” Jaskier rasps, _“keep talking_ , my wolf, please,”

And,

“The day we met,” Geralt starts, and Jaskier lets out a cutting breath as he takes a step forward, one Geralt mirrors, 

“Don’t do that _thing_ where you ask if I remember it,” the Siren says, weariness chewing through his teasing tone, but Geralt smiles nonetheless,

As, 

“I would hope you did,” he says, voice echoing off the vast cavern walls, all sleek grey stone shimmering with a dark, slick moss, “we’d have _far_ bigger problems if you didn’t,”

“Oh, _really?_ Bigger problems than you being trapped in the realm of the _dead_?”

“It’s not _exactly_ the realm of the dead,”

“Don’t _you_ start, too,”

“Apologies,”

“You’re forgiven,”

“Were you afraid of me?” 

_“What?”_ and Jaskier halts, head jerking on impulse, and Geralt moves to the side, heart thundering as his Siren curses and bites out, “don’t – _say_ shit like that, _Jesus_ , Geralt. Was I – the day we met? Was I _afraid_ of you?”

And Geralt swallows down the lump in his throat as they keep moving, as Jaskier leads him through the damned _Underworld_ , because Jaskier’s great-uncle is _Hades_ , and this had been –

_It’s a test,_

Because,

_Poseidon,_

_My grandfather,_

And,

“Is that why you didn’t tell me?” Geralt asks quietly, “why you – kept this from me?”

“Geralt…”

And maybe it’s not the right _time_ , but, 

_Jaskier_ is a _Godling_ ,

Is the grandson of _Poseidon_ _himself_ ,

And Geralt has met a handful of _Gods_ , of _Goddesses_ and _holy deities_ in his lifetime,

Knows that they’re _nothing_ to be _trifled with,_

And he knows Jaskier’s parents don’t _approve_ of this,

Of _them_ ,

And Geralt had always _assumed_ it was because their son was a _Siren_ and _Geralt_ – Geralt was a _yellow-eyed beast_ made to _hunt supernaturals_ , and Geralt knows that whilst he has the seemingly _rare_ gift of logic and discernment when it comes to the _hunt_ , 

Other Witchers do _not,_

So he’d assumed that it was all because of what _they_ were, what _he_ was, what that _meant_ , 

But then –

“They tore you _apart_ ,” Jaskier says quietly, beautiful voice all _knotted_ up, “the – the _Furies_. They came in and they… They _ripped_ you away from me, _tore you apart_. Just. Listen, alright?”

And Geralt stays quiet as they walk in silence for a few beats, until;

“I’m _glad_ they took that memory from you, because – it was _horrible_ , Geralt. They tore you apart to _bring_ you here and… Look, _we don’t._ We don’t talk to the – the _Gods_ , my family. My mum… She hasn’t seen my granddad since I was _born_ ,

“And there’s a _reason_ for that, _because they’re_ – they’re _brutal_. Case in point. This kind of shit is – _normal_ for them, this kind of _trickery_ , this kind _of_ – of _test_. This is just another fucking Sunday for my _stupid fucking uncle,_ ”

And Jaskier’s voice is _bitter_ , is laced with a _sourness_ that Geralt can taste at the back of his throat as the Siren _huffs_ and says softly, “I just wanted this to be… _Mine_. I wanted this to be – _protected_ , from all that,”

“It’s a _part_ of you, Jaskier,”

“I _know_ , I know that,” the Siren says sharply, and Geralt _aches_ to _touch him_ \- Gods, it’s like it was at the _beginning_ , when Jaskier was _nineteen_ and seemingly _so fucking unreachable_ , so out of the realm of _any_ possibility available to _one Geralt of Rivia,_

“You asked if I was _afraid_ of you,” Jaskier says then, and here, his _voice_ – it gets _heavy_ , gets _gritty_ , and Geralt’s stomach burns with the heat the Siren’s let loose inside him when Jaskier says, “I never – I never wanted it to occur to you to be _afraid_ of _me_ ,”

Which,

Makes Geralt _laugh_ , a little, _because_ ,

“You _terrify_ me, little lark,” he says honestly, and Jaskier halts, and Geralt can imagine the way he’s biting his lip, the way his brow knits up tight, “but only when you’re away. Only when I can't see you,”

And,

“I _hate_ you, Geralt of Rivia,”

“I know,”

“I want to kiss you _so badly_ ,” Jaskier says wetly, a brittle laugh punching from his chest, “I want to _see you_ , I –“

“Keep moving, sweet thing,”

“Yeah. You keep talking, White Wolf, _keep fucking talking to me_ ,”

And,

It’s easier than Geralt thought it would be,

_Until –_

Until it _isn’t,_

Until Shades start to _pour_ from the walls, ghastly figures without faces, cloaked in _pure white,_ ephemeral and transparent, 

Until Geralt’s _own fucking voice_ starts to call out to Jaskier from behind them,

“We must be close,” Geralt says as Jaskier curses, “ _Jaskier_ – “

And Geralt glances over his shoulder as a particularly _horrible_ , wrenching, “ _Jaskier, please!_ ” rips through the cavern, and it sounds as if someone is pulling all of Geralt’s fucking insides to his outsides,

Sounds like he’s being _flayed alive_ as a roar thunders through the walls,

As the Shades swirl around Jaskier, as they whisper things Geralt _can’t hear_ to _his fucking Siren,_

And,

“ _Jaskier_ ,” Geralt says sharply as Jaskier _staggers_ , as he catches himself against the wall and lets out a ragged, _pained_ groan,

“Jaskier, _listen to me_ ,” and he’s competing with the warped phantom of his _own fucking voice_ now as he says firmly, “keep those eyes _forward_ , little lark, you know I’m _right_ here, _listen to me_ , Jaskier,” and,

“At the river, you asked if I _trusted you,_ ” and,

“I need you to trust _me_ now,” but,

“More than that – trust _yourself_ , little lark - _you_ came for me, _you_ found me, _you_ led me here,” and,

“You _have me_ , Jaskier,” Geralt says as his own voice cries out in _agony_ behind them, as the Shades reach out with ghastly hands to stroke at Jaskier’s face, as they whisper insidious _bullshit_ to what _belongs to Geralt,_

And he’s wading through the molasses-thick phantoms as Jaskier bites out a grating, “ _fuck_ , fuck me,” one Geralt tries to soothe with a burring, “Jaskier, little lark, _listen to me_ ,”

As he gets as close as he fucking _dares_ to Jaskier as the Siren digs his fingertips into the slick wall, and Geralt reaches out, reaches out _but doesn’t_ – doesn’t _touch him,_

Just,

Allows his hands to _hover_ over him, pretends he’s feeling the heat of Jaskier’s skin through his jacket as he keeps his palms an inch from the Siren and follows the lines of his arms,

As he wills the _warmth_ of his body to touch what _he cannot,_

And his _own voice_ cries out in gut-wrenching _agony_ behind them as Shades _whisper things_ to Jaskier that Geralt _can’t hear,_

As Geralt stands as _close_ as he _dares_ to his Siren,

As he utters, “ _Jaskier,_ ” like a damn _hymnal,_

And it is,

 _Gods_ , it is,

And so is;

“You are the _heart_ of me,” so,

 _“Hear me_ , Jaskier,” because,

“I’m _right here_ ,” and,

“ _Feel_ me,” 

But,

“I _can’t_ ,” Jaskier manages, fierce voice cracking in two, “I fucking _can’t_ , I can’t – “

And Geralt _aches_ to touch him more than he thinks he _ever_ has as Jaskier’s head tilts, as another horrible plea of, “ _Jaskier, come back! Help me!_ ” threatens to rip them _apart_ , 

Just as Geralt _truly_ had, a year and five months ago,

Five months Geralt spent as a dead man walking, _because_ ;

“You are the _heart_ of me,” he says fiercely, hands hovering over Jaskier’s as he stands _so_ close, as he _aches_ to _touch him_ but _can’t_ ,

And this is the _finest_ torture Geralt thinks he’s _ever_ been made to suffer,

To listen to his _own voice_ calling out for help,

As it _torments_ the Siren he _can’t touch,_

The Siren that _can’t look at him_ lest he _lose him_ , and,

Geralt pours all his inhuman willpower into the “ _I love you_ ,” he utters as a _scream_ boils into a _sob_ behind them,

As Jaskier grips the stone wall until his knuckles _bleach out,_

As he bends forwards with the _force_ of the wrenching litany of tear-soaked curses he lets fall from his lips, the lips Geralt _longs_ to taste,

But even as Geralt burrs as _low_ and _comforting_ as he can, _Jaskier_ – Jaskier shoves away from the wall,

Spits out a horrible, “ _fuck_ ,” as he moves forward several swift, _panicked_ paces, as he _frantically_ puts distance between himself and Geralt, hands moving to cover his own ears as Geralt thinks of getting on his damn knees to start _praying_ to any entity that will _listen_ ,

But –

As Jaskier shoves his hands into his hair and Geralt’s _own screams_ echo through the cavern, as the _true_ Geralt grasps at straws for _anything_ , something,

There’s a _soft_ , silver bell of a sigh - a sigh that cuts _right_ through the _wrenching_ roars of the thing trying to break them _apart_ ,

And the silver-bell sigh is followed by a scent of _springtime_ ,

A _balmy_ , seasalt breeze, and,

A _new_ phantom rises out of the _mire_ of the rest,

A phantom that takes the vague shape of a woman, _and_ ,

Geralt almost moves to protect the Siren when ghostly hands reach out to cup Jaskier’s face between them,

But then,

 _“If you have faith in nothing else_ ,” and the voice is mournful, is _laden_ with a _sorrow_ so profound Geralt can _taste_ it like ashes at the back of his tongue, _“have faith in this,”_ and,

There’s a _flash_ of _blinding_ white light,

And Geralt staggers to his feet with a bark of, “ _Jaskier!_ ” as panic swells up in his throat, as he begins to ache for the taste of _blood_ on his tongue, as he thinks to turn back and find Hades and –

The light fades as a maelstrom of _rage_ unfurls in Geralt’s gut, as he begins to resolve to rip the river in two just to reach the one who had caused Jaskier pain this time, 

_(Would ripping him apart make you whole, Witcher? Would you find penance in punishing another for your own sins?)_

But,

Even as Geralt shoves upright and moves forward,

The light _fades_ , and,

The phantom is _gone_ ,

And _so are_ – so are the _fucking Shades_ , as,

Everything goes _suddenly_ , resoundingly silent – Jaskier’s knelt on the floor still, shaking shoulders bowed forwards, and Geralt approaches his Siren with a writhing heart as Jaskier takes in a wet, _trembling_ breath, and - 

_“Geralt?”_

And,

_Gods,_

His _voice_ ,

It’s _wrenching_ ,

Wrought with the kind of _pain_ that came through the songs he’d sung when Geralt had torn them apart, 

The ones that Geralt couldn’t seem to _escape_ , 

(The ones he _didn’t want to,_ the ones he wanted holding his whiplashed heart _captive_ , because it was the only _safe_ way to love Jaskier,)

The ones that Jaskier will sing on stage when Geralt is there, because no matter how _painful_ they are, they’re a _part_ of him, and Geralt would rather _die_ than ask Jaskier to swallow down any piece of his own soul to _silence_ it, even the pieces that bring Geralt of Rivia to his damn _knees_ ,

The ones that have Geralt’s bones _aching_ in the cusp of his muscle, because _that pain_ – the pain he’d shot through Jaskier, bullets from his shrapnel heart - comes back with _such_ ease, as if it’s still living _just_ beneath the surface of Jaskier’s skin, as if the wounds Geralt had left over him still _bled_ , and -

“ _Right_ here,” Geralt answers hoarsely, relief blooming like a supernova in his gut, “I’m _right_ here, little lark,”

And he can picture the look of utter consternation and pure _anger_ on Jaskier’s face, can see the furrow of his brow, the wrinkle of his nose, the twitch of his lip, the clench in his jaw,

As the Siren breathes _out_ , slow and utterly uneven,

As Jaskier braces against the wall to haul himself to his feet, and _Geralt_ –

Geralt’s not letting him out of his damn sight for _weeks_ , when they get the _fuck_ out of here,

Is going to keep Jaskier in the fortress of his arms for as long as the Siren will _allow_ him to,

Knows it’ll be _days_ before they see the outside of their bedroom after this, _because_ ,

“I want to _touch you,_ ” Geralt burrs roughly, deep voice grating even to his own ears; “ _fuck_ , I know,” Jaskier chokes out, “just keep –“

“Talking, I know,”

“Your _voice_ , Geralt, you’ve no _idea_ what it does to me,”

But,

“I think I’ve _some_ idea, little lark,” and,

“The things your voice does to me, Jaskier,” and,

“I’m going to make you _sing_ until you’ve no voice left for anyone else when we get out of here,”

And Jaskier lets out a mangled sound as his scent goes _thick_ with a sudden spike of adrenaline-soaked desire, the kind of desire that has Geralt’s gut _twisting_ and his skin feeling too damn _tight_ , and Jaskier is all lithe lines and lean muscle ahead of him and _he can’t –_

He _can’t fucking touch him,_

Which makes Geralt _want_ him to the point of _insanity_ ,

But,

 _How_ is that different from _any other day_ , he wonders wildly, _because_ ,

He’s _never_ wanted like this,

Never felt like he’s bleeding from an _open wound_ even as he’s being made _whole_ , and,

It’s been like this from the _moment_ they’ve met,

And,

“I’m a selfish bastard, Jaskier,” Geralt says, just this side of _too rough,_ and they’re _so fucking close now_ ; the air is lightening in his lungs as reality begins to pierce through the veil of the between-world that is Hades’ realm, and Jaskier takes another deep breath as they keep moving, one step at a time, 

“But here you are,” the Siren says, sounding strangled, “loving me anyway,”

Because,

“You’re the _heart_ of me, Jaskier,” and now there’s a rare-found agony in Geralt’s voice when he says it, one he tastes like dust at the back of his tongue, dust that becomes _honey_ when –

“It’s absolutely _stupid_ , you know that?” and Jaskier sounds _just this close_ to a broken laugh as he slides his ringed fingers over the wall, and then they’re taking a gentle bend and – there’s sunlight, _real_ sunlight, and Geralt’s heart kicks up two, three times in his chest, as, “it’s _absolutely stupid,_ how _gone_ I am on you,” and,

“I’m _so fucking terrified,_ Geralt, _all the time,_ ” and,

“ _Terrified_ of _you_ ,” but,

“But - you _got across the river_ ,” and,

“You – _drowned_ ,”

And,

Yes,

 _Because_ ,

“I’d do _anything_ ,” Geralt says, and the sunlight pools like liquid gold over the path, stains the slick walls orange, “whatever you asked of me,”

“Okay then,” Jaskier says, fierce and vicious, “be _real_. Be real, Geralt. When we get out of here – when I turn around –“

“I’ll be right here,” 

“ _Promise_ me,”

“I _swear_ to you,”

“I’ll go _right back_ if you’re lying, I’ll find you –“

“I know you will, you always do,”

“And I’ll _kill_ you, Geralt, I’ll _kill_ you if you’re not real,”

“Only thing that could, I think,”

“I hate you, Witcher,”

“I love you, Siren,”

“Yeah,” Jaskier manages, and they’re _right_ – right at the mouth of the cavern now, but the mouth is really a mirror, some kind of portal, and _beyond it –_

Beyond it is _their fucking bedroom_ , the one with the half-unpacked boxes, the one in the estate Geralt found for them in the countryside, the one with the runes under the floorboards and sigils burnt into the ancient walls beneath the peeling wallpaper,

And Geralt _aches_ as Jaskier halts before the portal, as false sunlight spills through the shimmering surface from the windows arcing in a _wide_ circle over their bed, 

_Aches_ , as the Siren whispers, “you’ve _no_ idea what your love makes of a man, Geralt of Rivia,”

And Jaskier takes a deep breath as the words settle over Geralt like some _spell_ , 

And then,

The Siren proves himself far braver than Geralt has _ever_ been as he steps forwards,

As he passes through the veil between the Underworld and the reality Hades had torn Geralt from,

And Geralt is _right_ behind him,

Steps out of the Underworld _and_ –

He _feels it,_ when the chains break, when they _fall_ from him, _dust_ from _marble_ ,

Commanded away by Jaskier’s love, _and_ ,

Jaskier breathes _hard_ and _quick_ , 

And Geralt can smell _blood_ , though the oaken floor is clean of it; Yennefer must’ve sent people, he thinks absently, and Jaskier breathes hard and quick as he takes a hesitant step over the floor, as Geralt’s nostrils flare with the _iron tang_ of _blood_ ,

But _above_ it, 

Is _their_ scent,

Is –

_Cedar,_

Smoke,

_Summer rose,_

Vanilla,

_Clove,_

Steel,

_And -_

Sex, 

_Sweat,_

Sleep-soft _musk_ ,

And Geralt’s head _spins_ as he breathes in _their reality_ , the _gentlest_ place he’s lived, the one he _doesn’t deserve,_

As,

“ _Tell me_ ,” Geralt pleads quietly, and he’s _this_ close to either falling to his damn _knees_ to pray or letting out a _roar_ that could rip the earth, he’s not sure which, because – “ _look_ at me, Jaskier, and tell me what my love makes of you,”

“You have to be _real_ ,” Jaskier says, and – 

Gods,

His _voice_ ,

It’s –

Now,

_See,_

Geralt has been _gutted_ ,

Has been _shot_ ,

Has been _stabbed_ in the _heart_ ,

Has been _poisoned_ , strangled, 

Has been _branded_ and _beaten_ ,

But _no_ pain has _ever_ been as _acute_ as this,

As the way Geralt _feels it_ when Jaskier pleads _fiercely_ , “be real, Geralt, or _so help me_ –“

And Geralt steps _close_ now, walks with _care_ around the spot on the floor Jaskier didn’t _dare_ set foot over, where he _knows_ he must’ve bled out as Hades’ Furies _ripped_ _him open_ to bring him to the Underworld in _pieces,_

And he _bleeds_ now, bleeds _stardust_ from the invisible wounds that split apart over his ribs, across the surface of his heart, _all_ for Jaskier,

But he knows the chains have _broken_ , when,

He moves _close enough_ that Jaskier’s back brushes against his chest, _as_ ,

His sword-calloused fingertips light over the delicate bones of the Siren’s wrists, _and_ ,

Jaskier’s breath _hitches_ and _snaps_ , cracks in his chest before it even reaches his throat, _because_ ,

Geralt, _barely able to breathe,_

Ghosts his lips over the strong curve of the Siren’s neck,

_And,_

“Look at me,” Geralt begs, fingers creeping into Jaskier’s palms, and the Siren turns his head towards him, and he thrums with a _new_ kind of energy, an energy that’s slowly burning Geralt _alive_ , “Jaskier, sweet thing, _look_ at me,” and,

“ _Feel_ me, little lark,” because,

“I’m _right_ here,” so,

“ _Look_ at me,”

And,

He thinks he’s about to _unravel_ as Jaskier grows _tense_ , as the Siren’s hands _unfurl_ and lift away from his own,

But then –

 _“Make me,_ Witcher,” and,

It’s a _command,_

A _challenge_ ,

A _plea_ ,

A bullet _straight_ to the _heart_ , and,

Geralt slides a hand up under Jaskier’s soft leather jacket,

Molds his palm to the shape of his firm, lithe waist, _as_ ,

He begins to unravel in the middle of their bedroom, the bedroom with the sigils beneath the peeling wallpaper, the bedroom with the unpacked boxes, the bedroom with the bed that’s only _ever_ been a haven,

And Geralt steps around Jaskier as the Siren begins to smell of thickening _desire_ , a desire that _chews_ through his _fear_ , 

As the Siren’s heartbeat becomes the _sun_ around which Geralt orbits, _and_ ,

He moves around Jaskier to find the Siren’s eyes shut _tight_ , brow furrowed, nose _wrinkled_ , and Geralt thumbs gently over that wrinkle as an all-consuming, utterly _annihilating_ love threatens to bring him to his _knees_ ,

As the most _acute_ pain clashes with the most _divine_ deliverance in his gut, and Geralt slides a hand along Jaskier’s jaw, breathes his name against the Siren’s cheekbone as he thumbs over his chin and starts to kiss down his face,

And Jaskier’s breath hitches as the Siren’s steady hands slide over Geralt’s elbows, as he pulls himself almost _imperceptibly_ closer to the Witcher and turns into Geralt’s lips, as his scent _simmers_ with a _need_ that’s got Geralt’s cock straining in his sweats, _and_ ,

The air is _so_ tense, 

So _thick_ he thinks it might _shatter_ if he moves too fast,

So it happens _so_ slowly, when Geralt puts his lips to Jaskier’s,

Is as _tentative_ as –

_“Jaskier,” and the Siren’s eyes are so brilliant under the moonlight, so beautiful, so goddamn blue,_

_And it’s been six years of stumbling into Jaskier_ over _and_ over _, of finding his path crossing with the Siren’s until they were_ one _, until it was no longer just Geralt of Rivia, but Geralt-and-Jaskier, even in his_ own _mind,_

_The Witcher and the Siren,_

_The singer with the voice that set off embers in his gut, and,_

_Jaskier is beautiful and bloodstained in the moonlight,_

_And the feral Sirens that had tried to drag him away lie dead across the sand as the tide crashes into the shore,_

_As,_

_“Knew you’d find me,” Jaskier says, and he’s bloodied and bruised,_

_Is_ safe _and_ whole _in Geralt’s arms,_

_And Geralt thinks this has been coming from the moment those blue eyes lit upon him as Geralt loomed over Jaskier, center fucking stage,_

_Dead banshee between them,_

_And,_

_Geralt can_ barely breathe,

_And he knows he doesn’t deserve this,_

_Because Jaskier is beautiful and brilliant, is sunlight where Geralt is shadow,_

_But as the Siren slides a hand around the nape of the Witcher’s neck and manages a choked, aching, “Geralt,”_

_All he can do,_

_Fuck,_

_All he can do is –_

Tentatively,

So fucking _slowly_ ,

The Witcher puts his lips to Jaskier’s,

And though it’s _so_ slow, _so_ tentative, _so_ gentle,

Jaskier makes a sound as if he’s been fucking _gutted,_

But then the Siren is _clutching_ at Geralt as he surges into the kiss, 

And Jaskier kisses him with a _command_ on his tongue - but it’s _Geralt_ , Geralt who breathes, “ _look_ at me,” and,

It’s a _challenge_ ,

A _plea_ ,

A _demand_ ,

And Jaskier’s _command-speaking_ tongue slides along his own as Geralt carefully frames his throat in a _keeping_ hand,

As the Siren’s _lithe_ body presses _so_ tight against him there’s no room for _doubt_ left between them, and,

“Be real,” Jaskier murmurs against Geralt’s lips, and a tear cuts down his cheek as –

Those blue eyes flicker _open_ , and,

Geralt felt the chains _break_ ,

But he doesn’t come back to _life_ , doesn’t _truly_ resurface from the depths of the river, doesn’t _feel_ the blessed air flood his lungs the way he _ought_ to until those eyes are flickering open, until they’re lifting to meet his _own_ , 

Sky-blue to sunlit gold,

And,

“I’m _right_ here,” the Witcher murmurs, but,

“ _Geralt_ ,” and Jaskier chokes on it as his hand drops to Geralt’s chest, chokes on the shape of the Witcher’s name like it’s a fist around his goddamn throat, and it – Gods, his voice –

And then the Siren is crushing their mouths together, _just_ this side of utterly, _absolutely_ painful, _just_ this side of _fanged_ , of _furious_ , of _frantic_ ; he tastes like _saltwater_ and _ozone_ , like heat and mint, like _Jaskier_ , and Geralt shoves the Siren’s thin leather jacket away from his shoulders with a _snarling_ growl, starts to pluck at the buttons of his gauzy blouse so he can get a hand under it, and he thumbs at one of Jaskier's pierced nipples until the Siren moans, _raw_ and _unabashed_ , against Geralt's probing tongue,

As,

Jaskier tugs at Geralt's t-shirt with _desperate_ hands until Geralt tips back just enough to strip it off, and as soon as it's on the floor they’re trading gasping breaths between their lungs as Jaskier _clings_ to Geralt’s _bare_ , war-torn shoulders to step out of his boots - he’s _panting_ , now, is panting like an animal in _heat_ against Geralt’s lips as the Witcher steers them towards their bed, as he bears Jaskier _down_ to the mussed blankets, _all_ controlled muscle and _aching_ bones,

As the Siren splays his fingertips over Geralt’s mouth and rolls his hips in an _agonized_ wave when the Witcher laves his tongue up his index and forefinger, needing to _taste_ his touch, the touch that brings him back to _life_ , the touch that coaxed him out from the Underworld and broke his chains,

And Geralt slides his hands over Jaskier’s slender waist, _revels_ in his soft skin as he nuzzles at his furred chest and peels him out of his _obscenely_ tight pants to free his thickening cock, already bleeding little pearls of pre, 

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Jaskier grits out as Geralt slides down to kitten-lick at the head of his cock, rosy-pink and coated in the _sweetest_ elixir he’s ever tasted, “Geralt, _darling_ –“

“The God of the Underworld knows how to torment a man,” Geralt murmurs against the side of Jaskier’s dick, thumb pressing into the sensitive crease of his groin, and the way Jaskier’s scent _spikes_ with _need_ has him feeling as if he’s just swallowed down Cat, “you’ve _no_ idea how hard it was not to _touch you,_ Jaskier,”

“Can we _not_ – “ Jaskier manages, “talk about my uncle in _bed_?”

Which gets Geralt’s chest vibrating with a low laugh, one that catches him by surprise, and Jaskier huffs weakly as he slides a hand into Geralt’s hair when the Witcher laves his tongue over the thick vein on the underside of his pretty cock, 

“I would’ve had you there,” Geralt burrs, feeling _possessed_ by it as he noses through a dewdrop of pre on Jaskier’s belly, as he breathes _deep_ of the Siren’s scent, as he _revels_ in the strength of his body beneath his brutal hands, _and_ ,

“I would’ve had you in that damn _cavern_ ,” and,

“Would’ve made you _sing_ my name until _all of Hell_ heard you,”

And Jaskier’s hips _strain_ as his groan becomes the war-cry that awakens the beast in Geralt’s gut, the beast with the green eyes that burn red, _all_ for the love of the Siren that commands him to _drown_ so he might _live_ , and -

“Tell me,” and Geralt _thrums_ with it, now, with a residual _anger_ , with a fear borne of a wicked _doubt_ that has _no fucking business_ being here, not with _them_ ; “tell me you _know_ , Jaskier, tell me you _know_ I would’ve _found a way_ , no matter how long it took, no matter how much agony I might’ve suffered,” and,

“Tell me you _know_ I would’ve ripped that place _apart_ to come back to you,” and,

“Tell me,” Geralt begs, as Jaskier curls up, as he moves to catch Geralt’s face between his hands, as he pulls the Witcher up into a kiss that’s _slick_ with tears, and Geralt surges into it, moves like the tide against the rock of Jaskier’s body as the Siren breathes life between his lips, “tell me you know you’re the _only_ god I’ve ever knelt to,” 

And,

“I know,” Jaskier says, the truth of the words like the bitter sweetness of the Siren’s spunk down his throat, “I _know_ , baby, I know,”

“You’re the _heart_ of me,” Geralt utters quietly, golden eyes drowning in a sky-blue that bleeds the sea, “the only hand that could kill me is yours,”

“Geralt,” and Jaskier sounds _wrecked_ and _fond_ all at once, sounds _exasperated_ and _adoring_ , overwhelmed and _desperate_ , and he smells of _lust_ and _need_ , of cedar, of smoke, of summer rose, but not nearly enough of – “Geralt, _darling_ , I –“

“Jaskier,”

“I know you want to be _gentle_ –“

“Jaskier… I don’t know if –“

“ _Please_ ,” Jaskier manages, and the Siren’s lip curls as Geralt presses him back to the sheets, as he covers Jaskier with the bulk of his body, “you should’ve taken me in that _fucking cave_ , baby, should’ve made them hear us, we should’ve –“

“Hold onto me,” Geralt says lowly, and Jaskier _does_ , slides his arms around Geralt’s war-torn shoulders, and there’s some _new_ kind of fire that’s starting to spark between them, some new _magic_ borne of their _fear_ , of the souls that have been bound together from the moment Geralt decided it would be such a _fine_ way to die, drowning in those sky-blue eyes, 

“Hold onto me, little lark,” the Witcher breathes in Jaskier’s ear as he slides a slick hand between his legs, as Jaskier’s head falls back and he keens out a grating, pitchy, “oh, _fuck_ , Geralt,” when the Witcher slides two fingers into him, _right_ down to the last knuckle,

As Geralt says, with a possessive _violence_ at the back of his tongue, “and we’ll see if I can’t make them hear us anyway,”

“That was – oh, _right there_ , fuck - _terrible_ ,”

“Was it? It got you _wet_ , little lark, don’t _lie_ to me,”

“Oh, _fuck_ ,”

“I could _smell_ you,” and _Geralt can’t_ – he can’t seem to _stop talking_ , can’t seem to rein himself in as Jaskier _writhes_ beneath him, as the Siren gazes _pleadingly_ up at him, bottom lip caught, shiny and slick, between his teeth, “I could smell the _heat_ of you, the warmth of your skin,” and,

“ _Fuck_ , Jaskier, the way you smell,” and,

“The way you _sound_ ,”

And Jaskier splays his guitar-calloused fingertips over Geralt’s lips as the Witcher loosens him up, as he works a third finger into the _tight_ heat of his body and exhales between Jaskier’s knuckles, as he drowns _so_ willingly in the fathomless pools of Jaskier’s sky-clutching eyes,

Drowns _so_ willingly, all so he might _live_ ,

All at the _command_ of –

“Geralt,” Jaskier moans thickly, and,

 _Gods_ ,

That _voice_ ,

 _“That’s it,_ sweet thing, you’re _so_ beautiful, _so_ good,” and the praise _drips_ from Geralt’s lips with such ease, drips from his lips and over Jaskier’s clever fingers as the Siren strokes over the edge of his teeth, as he toys with the tip of Geralt’s tongue, and the Witcher catches his index finger under a canine as his cock _aches_ and _throbs_ between his thighs, as it weeps thick strands of pre over their sheets, the sheets he won’t be washing for some time, all so he can breathe deep of the scent of the _both_ of them,

And,

“I’m going to make them _regret_ this,” Jaskier says furiously, voice tinged in a keen as Geralt slides his tongue down the side of his finger, as the Witcher kisses over his palm and reaches for the lube to slick up his cock, “I’m going to make them regret ever laying a fucking _finger_ on you,” and,

“You’re _mine_ , Witcher, you hear me?” so,

“Make them hear us, Geralt, don’t you hold back,” because,

“I’m _yours_ ,” and,

“I want to _feel_ it,” 

Then,

“Hold onto me,” and Geralt says it _right_ against Jaskier’s lips, forces the Siren to swallow the words as he sinks into the tight clutch of him, as he pushes into Jaskier to make them _one_ , until he can’t fucking tell where his body _ends_ and Jaskier’s _begins_ ; “hold onto me, little lark,”

But,

“Always _will_ , my wolf,” Jaskier breathes, and,

Geralt _drowns_ as he sinks into the sea-born beauty beneath him,

Drowns, _all_ so he might _live_ ,

And that’s where the gentleness _ends_ , really,

 _Right_ as Geralt sinks into the _relentless_ current of Jaskier’s _divine_ atmosphere,

And it ends _right_ as Geralt sinks into Jaskier, _because_ –

“You wanted to make me _sing_ ,” Jaskier all but growls, and Geralt’s cock pulses as he makes a sound like he’s been punched in the damn _gut_ , as Jaskier sinks a hand into his silver hair and grips it _tight_ , “ _I_ want you to make me _scream_ ,”

And,

Who is he to _deny_ a _God_?

So,

Geralt slides his hands down Jaskier’s thighs,

As,

The Siren lifts a challenging brow, 

And,

“Wish we’d found the damn mirror,” Geralt mutters, and Jaskier’s hoarse laugh turns into a _wild_ , cresting _shout_ when the Witcher pushes his legs back, all but bends the Siren in _half_ ,

When Geralt starts to fuck into him the way he knows Jaskier _needs_ ,

The way that has their bed _shaking_ ,

The way that has Jaskier’s nose turning as _cherry-pink_ as the head of his weeping cock as he _clutches_ at Geralt’s war-torn shoulders, as his legs wind around Geralt’s pumping hips, ankles locking together behind his ass,

And Geralt curls a sword-calloused hand around Jaskier’s cock as he fucks into him, as he rears back to watch the Siren’s face twist with a pleasure Geralt knows only _he_ can coax through him, 

_As –_

“Geralt, oh, _fuck_ , right there, _just_ –“ and,

“ _Harder_ , my wolf, _harder_ , bruise me with that cock, _please_ , I want –“ and,

 _“Oh, oh, oh_ fuck, _oh_ – “

And,

The scent of Jaskier’s spunk _slams_ into him with the force of a damn _bullet_ when the Siren cums with a _shout_ , a shout that _splinters_ and _shatters_ as Geralt fucks him through his first orgasm, as he milks the Siren’s cock until Jaskier is _whimpering_ , until he’s clutching at Geralt’s arm with a _frantic_ hand,

But he doesn’t try to shove Geralt _away_ , just – _holds_ onto the Witcher’s wrist as Geralt keeps his softening cock in his palm, as he gazes down at the Siren with a fierce, devoted pride at the back of his throat, as he burrs a soft, “shh, _that’s it,_ I’ve got you,” and,

“You’re _filthy_ , sweet thing,” he praises faintly, and Jaskier’s cheeks go _red_ as his thighs squeeze Geralt’s hips and his teeth catch in his bottom lip, _bitten_ and _bruised_ pink,

And it’s _true_ , he is; Jaskier’s belly and chest are both streaked with spunk, a spot of it clinging to his jaw, dewdrops on his collarbone, and Geralt keeps fucking into him as he bows over the Siren, as he noses through the cooling mess of his seed and gets absolutely fucking _drunk_ on the _scent_ of him, on the _honeyed musk_ of the proof of life he’s coated himself in,

_“Geralt,”_

“Right here, little lark,”

“ _Don’t_ stop, don’t you _dare_ stop,”

“No,” Geralt burrs, and Jaskier _keens_ sharply when the Witcher drags his cock from the wet sheath of his body only to thrust punishingly back into him, “you’ve not screamed for me yet. You’ve _barely_ sung for me, Siren,”

And Jaskier _grins_ , grins and flashes a too-sharp canine, clever tongue curling over the edge of the tooth, and then Geralt’s sliding his fingers through the slick spunk on the Siren’s belly, on his chest, 

Before he _reaches up,_

Splays them over Jaskier’s bruised, grinning lips,

And Geralt thinks he’s seen everything _any_ heaven has to offer when Jaskier’s tongue slides between his knuckles, catching dewdrops on the tip; the Siren gazes up at Geralt through heavy, _lidded_ eyes as he cleans himself off of Geralt’s fingers, as he rolls his _slender_ hips and his dick starts to swell over his belly again,

As he breathes, _right_ against Geralt’s palm,

“Then _get on with it_ , Witcher,”

So,

“On your belly, Jaskier,”

And,

“Don’t stop _talking_ , Geralt,” 

“I _won’t_ , sweet thing, I’ll be _right_ here,” and,

“I would’ve taken you like this in the cave,” and,

“Left _no fucking room_ for _doubt_ ,” Geralt breathes as he slides a hand into Jaskier’s hair and nudges against his entrance, nudges blindly until he’s sinking into him again, and Jaskier’s back bows with the force of the _high_ , dulcet _moan_ he lets out, “the way they _questioned_ me – my _devotion_ –“

“I _thought_ ,” and Jaskier sighs raggedly as Geralt starts to fuck into him, “thought you were going to - _just_ like that, baby, keep on like that - fight them right there,”

“For that? I should’ve.”

“It wouldn’t’ve – oh, _Geralt_ , please –“

“It _would’ve_ ,” Geralt breathes against the Siren’s ear, and they’re pressed so fucking close together he truly doesn’t know where their bodies become two instead of one, “ _every_ battle fought in your name is worth it,”

_“Geralt,”_

“Tell me,” and the Witcher slides an arm around Jaskier’s waist, keeps him pressed _right_ to his chest as he mouths over the Siren’s shoulder and the bed shakes, as the headboard hits the wall and Jaskier starts to utter soft sounds with _every_ punishing thrust, as the Siren grips Geralt’s arm with one hand and fists the sheets with the other, knuckles bleached _white_ ,

“Tell me, Jaskier – tell me you _know_ ,”

“I _do_ ,” Jaskier keens quietly, tear-damp cheek smearing against Geralt’s temple, “I _do_ , baby, I do, I _swear_ –“

And Geralt _knows_ it’s the truth,

Because _here he is,_

Commanded to _live again_ by the sheer force of Jaskier’s _unconquerable_ willpower,

The willpower of a _God_ , and,

Geralt slides his hand up, cups the front of Jaskier’s throat to feel the vibrations of _that fucking voice_ as Jaskier’s keens start to build, as the _musk_ of his _scent_ starts to _deepen_ , as his body crests up against Geralt’s in a silent demand for _more_ , for; _harder, faster, deeper,_

And who the _fuck_ is he, to _deny_ a _God?_

So,

Geralt _gives_ ,

 _Gives_ and _gives_ ,

Gives until he’s _shaking_ , until his thighs burn and his silver hair is _damp_ with _sweat_ , until he’s able to lick the glistening exertion from Jaskier’s spine, salty and sweet _all at once,_

And he fists Jaskier’s cock in time with his thrusts, fists it one, two, _three_ times before letting it drop from his hand, and with every _one, two, three_ that Geralt gives, Jaskier’s cries start to grow louder, start to become more _animal_ than _man_ , and Geralt’s nostrils flare when the Siren _sobs_ with it as the Witcher lets him go _one more time,_

“Geralt,” Jaskier begs, voice hoarse, just this side of _mangled_ , “ _please_ , Geralt, let me cum, _please_ , I _need_ –“

But,

“Just like this, sweet thing,” Geralt burrs against the nape of Jaskier’s neck, and he’s _this_ close, knows he'll be unable to keep his own orgasm back for much longer, “ _just_ like this, Jaskier, I know you can, _that’s it_ , you’re _so_ good, you’re _so good_ –“

And Jaskier’s spine arches as the Siren presses his face into Geralt’s palm and buries a _ragged_ , wrenching, _splitting_ keen against it, the sound _just_ this side of a scream, and Geralt _sighs_ with it, sighs with the sheer _relief_ of it, when Jaskier _shouts_ his name and cums in thick ropes over the sheets, paints his scent over the blankets Geralt will refuse to wash for some time,

And Geralt lets himself _drift_ into it, lets himself _drown_ in the scent of his Siren as he chases the languid afterthought of his own release, a release he buries between Jaskier’s thighs as he digs his teeth into the Siren’s nape with a _growl_ , the kind of growl he feels in his _marrow_ ,

The kind of growl that has Jaskier _whining_ , soft and sweet,

And Jaskier _keeps whining_ as Geralt pulls out of him, keeps whining until Geralt’s rolling him into the sheets, until Geralt’s moving over him and catching his jaw in one hand with a _deep_ , burring, “ _Jaskier_ ,” before their mouths _melt_ together,

And the _whines_ turn into _hums_ as Geralt pours over the Siren, as he frames his jaw in a _gentle_ hand and kisses him until Jaskier’s _clutching_ at him again, until those _clever_ hands are curling around his _huge_ , war-torn shoulders, palms covering the scars there like he might get them to _disappear_ if only he wished it _hard enough_ ,

 _If anyone could,_ Geralt thinks as he licks into Jaskier’s mouth, slow and lazy, as he swallows the pleased hum the Siren lets out, _it would be him,_

If _anyone_ could erase the evidence of Geralt’s brutal existence from his body, it would be Jaskier,

Just as it was _Jaskier_ who willed sunlight into his darkened heart,

Just as it was _Jaskier_ who bid him to _drown_ , all so he might _live_ , and,

“We’re not leaving this bed,” Jaskier murmurs quietly as the dewy afterglow begins to settle in around them, as sunlight pools over the sheets from the wide windows above the haven of their bed, “not for a few days yet, Geralt of Rivia,”

And he’s _glowing_ in the early spring sunlight, porcelain skin _gold-touched_ , sky-blue eyes _far_ more brilliant than _any_ sea as he gazes up at Geralt as if _Geralt_ is the _divine thing,_ and –

_Gods,_

He’s so -

“You’re _so_ beautiful,” and Geralt’s voice is _tight_ , gone _sideways_ in his throat when he says it, “some god must have loved me well to bless me with even a _moment_ of you,”

And Jaskier’s thick, _musky_ , honey-sweet scent begins to _deepen_ as he slides his arms around Geralt’s neck,

As his brow furrows and his kiss-beaten lips curve into a soft smile,

And Geralt nuzzles against the bridge of Jaskier’s nose, as;

“Well,” the Siren murmurs, “some God _did_ , didn’t he?”

And,

Geralt laughs around the lump in his throat as Jaskier’s smile turns into a grin,

As sunlight pools over their tangled bodies, warming their cooling skin,

As Jaskier whispers, _careful_ , quiet,

“ _That’s_ what your love makes of me, Witcher,

Something _divine_.”

And,

No death could _ever_ touch them,

Not when they _drown_ in one another, 

_All_ so they might _live_ ,


End file.
